


we're friends when you're on your knees

by sceptick



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Awkward Boners, Dom/sub, Hair-pulling, M/M, Service Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 01:12:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1879416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sceptick/pseuds/sceptick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Thanks for the concern, Stump,” Pete says, and he sounds almost back to normal.</p><p>“Shut up, Wentz,” Patrick shoots back, relief loosening his shoulders, but then – Pete licks his lips, and <i>does.</i></p><p>Ten minutes later, Patrick’s got a pillow over his crotch and a cup of tea steaming on the coffee table in front of him, and all he can think is, <i>Well. Shit.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	we're friends when you're on your knees

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt left by an anon at the bandom_meme: _Pete's pretty loudly enthusiastic (or obnoxious) most of the time, so when he starts getting quiet in Patrick's presence, he's not sure if he should be worried. When he starts getting quiet and doing what Patrick says, Patrick's even more worried. And a little turned on._
> 
> This is almost totally unbetaed, because it's big bang season and the whole world is too much to handle at the moment, but many thanks to tumblr user whatimages aka Julie for looking it over while I was working on it <333
> 
> (Also, quickly, since this is set during the recording of FUCT there are allusions to Pete's brain junk, although he isn't in a bad place at the time of the story. But if that's a thing you'd like to avoid then this may not be the story for you!)

“Feet off the couch, asshole,” Patrick says. He smacks the soles of Pete’s raggedy Converse to really nail the message down . It’s eight at night, he’s been on his feet all day, and Pete hasn’t even had to move once since morning because _he_ wasn’t recording, so Patrick feels justified in being a bit of a jerk. Besides, Pete’s never had a problem with Patrick being a jerk; he seems to find it endearing, actually, and normally laughs and gives it back with interest.

That’s “normally.” This time, Pete just cuts his eyes at Patrick, his face unreadable, then moves his feet carefully down to the floor, left then right. He even shifts over a little, tilting his head towards the now-free space, still watching Patrick.

“Uh,” Patrick says, then stops. His chest is weirdly tight. He feels kind of like he’s taken a step, expecting one more stair, only to hit level ground instead. “Thank you?”

Pete gives him a little smile, and Patrick sits gingerly, half-expecting a whoopee cushion or something. But nope. Pete flips the channels on the tiny TV in the corner serenely, and Patrick sits on his hands and thinks hard, trying to figure out when his life took a step sideways into Bizarro land.

It’s – the thing is, it’s not the first time. Not the first time recently. There’s been a few other odd stair-tripping moments in the past few weeks, now that he thinks about it. There was the time Patrick stole some fries right off Pete’s plate, and Pete just pushed them closer instead of, like, shoving the whole plate into Patrick’s face or something. And another time, when Patrick had claimed he was much too lazy to cross the room to grab an extra blanket when the temperature dropped, Pete had gone and gotten one for him without a word. He’d even kind of, like, tucked it around Patrick’s feet when he dropped it over him.

Beside him, Pete is very, very quiet. Patrick wants desperately to look over and get a read on him from his face, but something stops him. He shifts, resettles, pulls his feet up under him and fidgets with his hands, as if to compensate for Pete’s unnatural stillness.

The minutes drag on without change – they’re watching _MASH_ and Pete isn’t even laughing, just huffing near-silently under his breath. It’s so _weird_. Finally, Patrick can’t stand it anymore, can’t take not knowing what’s going on, and he opens his mouth, inhales for a demanding, _Pete, what the fuck_ –

The door to Joe’s room swings open, weed-tinged air wafting out followed by the man himself, and instantly Pete is back to himself; he lobs an empty, crumpled water bottle from off the coffee table at Joe’s head with a shitty grin and a _“On your left, motherfucker!”_ Joe, high out of his mind as he’s been for the majority of the past week – apparently it helps him with recording? Patrick’s not sure how that works, but whatever – Joe flails and misses, wide-eyed. Pete’s throw doesn’t even come near him but he stumbles back, arms out and waving; he loses his balance and careens sideways into the wall, the thump of his body hitting concrete muffled by Pete’s hoarse, characteristically over-loud cackle.

Patrick is really fucking confused.

*

The next time it happens, Patrick takes a stand. See – okay, it’s another thing he doesn’t really do around other people much, because strangers freak him out and crowds kind of do too and he spends far too much time around both these days. But the nice thing about Pete – the other nice thing, the first being that Pete seems to find it endearing when Patrick’s a bit of a dick, although lately he’s broken their formula there – the other nice thing, is that Patrick feels comfortable enough around him to actually, legitimately be mad.

“Dude. What the fuck?” Patrick finally demands, grabbing Pete’s wrist with both hands just seconds before Pete’s fingers would have curled around Patrick’s laces where Patrick’s feet rest obnoxiously in Pete’s lap.

Pete stares at him. “I was just going to –“

“I know what you were just going to do, Pete, but – since when do you – I mean –“ Suddenly all out of words, Patrick waves a hand at Pete, then at himself, then at his feet. Unbidden and definitely unwelcome, an image flashes through his mind: Pete’s fingers winding into his laces to deftly undo them, then gently pulling Patrick’s shoes off his feet, one at a time, just because Patrick had jokingly told him to; Pete setting Patrick’s socked feet carefully back down to his lap.

Patrick goes abruptly red, for no reason he can think of.

Pete just keeps staring at him; now, the corners of Pete’s lips are twitching slightly up, but he’s not interrupting, or – or fidgeting, or anything. He’s just sitting there.

Patrick stares at him, then looks down at his own hand, frozen mid-gesture between them. “I am so confused.”

Pete’s grin wins out, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yeah, I’m getting that, dude,” he says. His voice is softer than usual, calmer. Without the frantic energy that normally infuses it, it’s lower, too, almost a drawl from deep in his throat. Something about the way he’s watching Patrick seems softer too, attentive and careful. His pulse is quick, though, in the thin skin of his wrist under Patrick’s thumb.

Patrick stares at Pete. The slow heat of a flush takes over Patrick's cheeks, and he realizes that on top of being deeply, seriously confused, he is also unaccountably hard. And, fine. So it’s not the first time he’s gotten an awkward boner around Pete, but normally there’s some measure of nudity or -- or lyrical genius or something -- happening. This is -- this doesn’t make any sense.

“Um.” He casts about for another topic, anything; draws his hands back to himself. He ducks one under his hat and scratch at his scalp. Pete waits. Finally, Patrick blurts, the only thought in his head that he really, _really_ needs Pete to go away so he can find a convenient pillow or something for his lap, “Could you get me some tea? I’m. Please?”

Pete’s grin widens. “Sure,” he says, still in that low, soft voice. Patrick shivers for no fucking reason but Pete doesn’t seem to notice. He carefully moves Patrick’s feet from his lap onto the couch, then jumps up. Patrick doesn’t know how to read the tension coiled, stretching and tightening, in Pete’s body.

“Pete?” he says, even though he really does need Pete to go away so that he can find some camouflage for his boner – which, he’s nineteen. He’s too old for this crap. But there’s a nagging worry in the back of his mind, one that’s been present since he first noticed the way Pete’s been _off_ , the silence and the stillness. “Are you okay? Like, are you feeling okay?” Almost hopefully, he says, “You’re not coming down with something, right? Because it’d be a shitty time for you to get sick.”

“Thanks for the concern, Stump,” Pete says, and he sounds almost back to normal.

“Shut up, Wentz,” Patrick shoots back, relief loosening his shoulders, but then – Pete licks his lips, and _does_.

Ten minutes later, Patrick’s got a pillow over his crotch and a cup of tea steaming on the coffee table in front of him, and all he can think is, _Well. Shit._

*

Recording is frankly kind of a hassle. Writing songs is his favourite thing in the world, probably, but getting them to sound in real life how he hears them in his head is a whole other matter. Patrick unquestionably prefers the former to the latter, and probably always will, but Neal has promised to let Patrick snoop around his equipment and even to show him a few tricks. Joe’s joked that Patrick’s going to short out the soundboards with his drooling, and it’s maybe a legitimate concern. It’s just. It’s so fucking cool. Patrick’s job – his _job_ – is so fucking cool.

He’s pretty not terrible at it too, frankly. The songs might not sound exactly how he imagined them but they always end up working out. “Sugar,” for example, isn’t the most brainy piece of music he’s ever put together, but it’s catchy as fuck and, alone in the sound booth, he can already feel a bit of what it might be like to shout out the refrain in a throng of people all shouting along too. There’s a build to it, something that sweeps you up. Andy’s drums pound in his ears and he lets them pull him in, the rhythm section beating deep in his chest as he pushes through the tightness in his throat. He wants to catch that flying feeling in his voice.

When he steps back into what he’s been calling in his head the “control room,” Andy gives him a spontaneous round of applause.

“I just paid for your kid’s college tuition, Hurley, so you’d better make me godfather,” Patrick jokes, and Joe goes “ _Hey!_ I dibsed already, no fair.” But he claps Patrick on the back so there’s probably no hard feelings.  

Neal just gives Patrick a nod, which is high praise from him. And Patrick _knows_ that he did good, but just in case, he looks for Pete, too. It’s muscle memory by now – he was young and impressionable when he met Pete Wentz and he’s pretty sure it made him a better musician, but he’s got some leftover habits that, he thinks, he should probably be too old for now.

Pete is crouched by the soundboard, so low and still that Patrick doesn’t notice him at first. His eyes are dark when they meet Patrick’s. Patrick’s mouth goes desperately dry and he swallows, slicks his tongue over his lips, and Pete’s mouth drops open just a little. It’s so out of place, in the well-lit studio with their bandmates talking shit behind them and their producer ignoring them from off to the side, but Patrick can’t help but – picture it. Winding a hand in Pete’s hair to tip him forward onto his knees at Patrick’s feet. Tilting his hips forward, feeling Pete pull at his hold to meet him halfway, that open mouth pressed up against the old, worn-down denim of his jeans just off his zipper.

Pete’s throat visibly constricts and relaxes. He flicks his gaze down and away from Patrick, dark lashes invisible against the black under his eyes, then he rolls to his feet and walks right out of the studio, barely pausing at the door to throw one last look and a flick of a smile over his shoulder at Patrick, who goes cold and then hot all over instantly.

“What’s up with him?” Neal asks. Patrick startles, deer-in-the-headlights, struggling to pull his thoughts into something resembling order.

“He’s been sort of out of it for a while,” he manages finally. He doesn’t really like contributing to the general _Pete is crazy_ panic, although it’s still a possibility, frankly, but it seems like a better excuse than, _he had to leave because he got a boner._ Speaking of which. Patrick grabs his hoodie off the back of the chair, where he’d discarded it earlier, and pulls it on; it’s a good few sizes too large and the extra length is a goddamn blessing right now. “Uh. I’ll go talk to him. Unless you need me for anything more right now?”

Neal shrugs. “Should be good. That last take wasn’t half bad.”

“Awesome, glad to – glad to hear it,” Patrick says. In the corner of his vision he can see Joe and Andy laughing at him. Fuckers. He clears his throat, because he is a goddamn professional, and says, “Okay. I’ll check in later? And just – I’ll just go now.”

Neal waves him off, already distracted by his work again. Joe and Andy give him matching little waves and little smirks and he flips them off on his way out the door.

He doesn’t actually know where Pete’s gone, but the safest bet is back up to their room, so he heads back there himself. The elevator walls on the way up have mirrors from the waist-up and he stares at himself, trying to put what just happened into the context of the last few weeks, and the last few _years_. His cheeks still have a residual redness which, he thinks, looks kind of ridiculous against the ruddy colour of his hair, but Pete hadn’t looked at him like he was ridiculous. Pretty much the opposite. And thinking about that brings the flush back out, makes his mouth go dry again.

The elevator dings as it reaches their floor; he swallows, throat tight, and steps out.

The door is unlocked, which is good because he’s pretty sure he gave his key to Joe after he lost his. He barely makes it one step in before Pete is there and on him. He misses on the first kiss, catches Patrick’s upper lip and skin instead of a direct hit, and when Patrick lifts his hands instinctively to Pete’s shoulders he can feel Pete jittering, frenetic energy bursting out the seams. Pete’s teeth catch at Patrick’s lip, a sharp, brief pain that feels imprecise almost in the way it glances rather than sinks, like it was an accident. Patrick groans anyway.

“You need to stop being hot,” Pete mumbles, sliding his mouth along Patrick’s jaw. Patrick shivers at the combination of pressure and hot breath against his skin and pulls Pete in closer, stepping back until he hits the door. Pete presses up all along him. “How’m I supposed to get shit done when you’re being so hot?” he continues, a heated rasp against Patrick’s neck.

It’s so much – zero to sixty in the space of a song and an elevator ride – and Patrick digs his nails into Pete’s shoulders, trying to clear his head. “Shut up, Pete,” he says, his go-to response to Pete’s lavish and usually-inappropriate-but-not-so-much-right-now compliments. He punctuates it with a roll of his hips against Pete’s, a dirty grind that leaves nothing to the imagination, not how hard either of them are or where he wants this to go. Pete muffles a moan in Patrick’s skin and does as Patrick asked, putting aside words to seek out Patrick’s mouth again in a blind, haphazard, desperate trail of lips.

For a minute it’s just that, hot, desperate kisses up against the door; Patrick hasn’t even taken off his hoodie, his shoes, his head is a whirlwind of thoughts and every inch of his skin burning under the feeling of Pete against him. And he’s just – he’s so fucking relieved, because it makes sense, Pete being quiet, Pete being weird. Patrick’s had years to get used to being attracted to Pete, but if Pete had just worked it out _now_ \--

“For a while there I thought the boners were one-sided,” he says in a brief gap between kisses, Pete gasping for air just to the left of his mouth and his hands tight at Patrick’s waist. Patrick would totally make fun of him for it but he’s no better himself, each word hoarse, and out of the corner of his eye he can see Pete’s face, eyes closed and lashes dark against his skin. It’s – it’s a lot.

In reply, Pete grinds up against him, all hunger and no finesse. Patrick’s head thunks back against the door; normally he’d bitch about it, but Pete brings one hand up immediately to rest at the base of Patrick’s skull, steadying him, fingers rubbing gently over the impact point. “Sorry,” Pete whispers, and there’s something – something in his voice that Patrick’s not quite sure how to read, something soft, like when he’d gotten Patrick tea earlier that week. The wood behind Patrick presses into his spine and shoulder blades as he shivers. Pete makes a choked noise and closes his eyes; he sways in until his nose is pressed to Patrick’s shoulder, close like he gets on stage. Patrick almost doesn’t catch his next words, with his mouth pressed to Patrick’s collarbone through thin cotton and Patrick’s pulse pounding in his ears.

“Tell me what you want, tell me what you want me to do --”

Something inside Patrick flares hot then recoils, twisting in on itself, and Patrick forces a laugh, trying not to sound too -- something. Anything. God. “I think it’s pretty obvious what I want,” he says.

“No, I mean,” and Pete somehow manages to press _closer_ , forehead to Patrick’s neck so his eyelashes tickle Patrick’s skin, “tell me what to do, please, Patrick --”

Patrick’s throat goes tight and dry. Pete must feel him go stiff because in an instant he’s away, two steps back and watching Patrick carefully.

“Uh,” Patrick says. He feels abruptly all too exposed, near-panting with his lips still tingling from kissing Pete. In the little hallway leading into the suite’s living room, Pete is backlit from the natural light streaming in the far-off windows and his face is semi-shadowed; not unreadable, and not unreachable either, but like it could be going that way. It’s such a one-eighty from just seconds ago that Patrick feels light-headed. “I don’t. Uh.”

Pete’s face softens a little. “What did you think I’ve been doing these past weeks, dude? Like. I don’t think I was being subtle.”

Patrick swallows, dry all the way down. He tries not to think about how hard he got over such little, stupid things, but doesn’t really succeed and it probably shows; Pete bites his lower lip and steps closer, not quite into Patrick’s space but within arm’s length in case Patrick wanted to -- and he does. He doesn’t think he’s ever really wanted anything more.

“I’m into it,” Pete says, his voice doing that _thing_ again. “I want you to.”

Patrick presses his fingertips into the door behind him, trying to grab hold of something resembling stability. He feels dizzy with it all -- what Pete’s saying and how Pete _sounds_ and the memory of how Pete had felt pressed up against him, wiry strength and delicious heat. He stares at Pete and pictures it. Remembers that moment in the studio and imagines himself telling Pete to get on his knees and Pete _doing_ it.

But.

He swallows. “I -- fuck, Pete, I mean. Are we maybe going a little -- isn’t that a little, I don’t know, fast?”

Pete snorts, but not meanly. “Trick, you went touring in a beat-up van with three dudes you’d only known for a year and songs we’d only been playing for half that when you were _sixteen_. I think fast is just how we do things.”

“I was seventeen and shut up,” Patrick says automatically.

Pete laughs again, his face split in that stupid huge grin that Patrick -- that he knows so well. Pete takes another half-step closer. “Stupid impulsive decisions are good for your soul, Patrick.”

And -- fuck, Patrick wants to, of course he wants to. He can feel Pete’s warmth bleeding between the tiny gap between them and all he wants is to grab him and pull him close, or -- or _tell him_ to come closer himself, God. But his worries from before seal his throat and block his words, because what if Pete’s being reckless, what if Pete’s being _too reckless_. Like. Patrick doesn’t even want to think it, out of some stupid superstitious belief that if he thinks it he might make it true.

Pete must see it in his face because his eyes narrow and he says, voice tight, “Hey, fuck you.”

“Fuck _you_ , asshole,” Patrick says, because it hasn’t even been a _year_ and he’s still within his rights to worry about this shit. There’s fucking precedent. That hot, tight feeling in his gut is equal parts arousal and anger now and he’s not sure if he wants to storm out of the room or grab Pete and never let go; it’s this coiled mass that he can’t even _breathe_ around, and out of nowhere he finds himself snarling, “Fuck you, and -- and if you’re for real why don’t you _lick my fucking boots,_ Pete.”

He pants for breath in the hush that follows, too loud and too obvious. He can’t -- he almost can’t believe he just said that, but he holds his glare, staring Pete down as well as he knows how. Pete’s face is utterly blank. Then his eyes go dark; for a second, Patrick thinks Pete’s going to punch him.

Instead, Pete inhales, visibly, one long breath that Patrick can almost track, throat shifting and chest rising and falling again. Then, slowly, so fucking slowly, Pete gets down onto his knees. It should be awkward to watch -- his jeans are too tight to do it smoothly so he goes down one knee at a time and kind of teeters on his right while he gets his left under him, but then he’s _there_ and Patrick can’t fucking breathe.

There’s challenge and something else, something hotter and darker and deeper, in Pete’s eyes as he holds Patrick’s gaze. He ducks his head, shoulders hunching, and Patrick’s stomach drops, his throat closes off. Staring down at Pete, at Pete on his _knees,_ is so much more than he can handle, and between him and Pete he can see his old raggedy docs. Fuck. _Fuck_.

Pete dips, wavers, then bends down fully. He wraps one hand around Patrick’s ankle. Patrick can’t see it happen, can’t feel it through the sturdy leather, but he’s fucking shaking with it, staring down at the back of Pete’s head and the curved line of his back, muscle shifting under thin cotton. Patrick squints, recognizing the colour, and makes out the small _P.S_. scrawled in sharpie on the collar.

Pete pulls back and up before Patrick can comment. He doesn’t say a word, just stares down at Patrick’s feet. Patrick follows his gaze, and his mouth goes dry at the shine of spit against the black leather of his left boot.

“Shit,” he breathes, and instantly Pete looks up.

“You’re kind of a patronizing asshole,” he says, his voice croaky like he’s as dry-mouthed as Patrick. “But. On this one occasion I can probably forgive you.”

“Shit, Pete,” Patrick says, staring. Without any conscious decision he reaches out, pressing his thumb to the corner of Pete’s mouth. It feels like it’s about a million degrees in the suite and he shakes his head to clear it, drawing his arm back to his side. “You’re right, I’m sorry -- I trust you. I shouldn’t have --”

“Just don’t do it again, okay, now stop apologizing and fucking --” Pete cuts himself off, swallows, rocking back on his heels. He stares up at Patrick, dark-eyed. “I _want_ this. If you do too, then let’s fucking do it already.”

It’s -- no one _alive_ could say no to that. And Patrick, Patrick is done pretending he wants to; he wipes his sweaty palms against his jeans, then reaches out again to wind the fingers of one hand in Pete’s hair. He tugs ever so slightly and Pete groans, loud like he can’t hold it back after so long, harsh in the quiet of the room.

“Can I,” Pete says, his voice low and soft around the edges again, but with a new hint of desperation, “can I -- undress you, or something, Patrick, please --”

Patrick can feel sweat trickling down his back, sticking his layers to his skin with every breath. “Yes,” he says, and it comes out as more of a croak than anything else but Pete shudders anyway. “My -- my hoodie, and my shoes.”

Pete waits for a moment, staring up at him, and when Patrick doesn’t clue in he ducks his head a little, pulling against Patrick’s hold in his hair. Instinctively, Patrick tightens his grasp against Pete’s pull, and Pete’s mouth opens in a soundless gasp. “No,” Patrick says, and it’s smoother this time, more natural. “No, you can do it without me letting go, Pete.”

Pete’s throat works, and Patrick thinks he can make out a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his neck, hidden by the slight shadows catching on the angles of his body. The sunlight from the next room shines dully on his hair where it’s clenched in Patrick’s fingers.

Painfully slowly, Pete makes his way to his feet. They’re so close together that it’s like Patrick can feel every shifting muscle as Pete works to get his feet under him without using his hands, because that would pull him down out of Patrick’s hold; sweat gathers at Pete’s temples and slicks his hair in Patrick’s grasp, but then he’s up, stomach trembling slightly as he pants for breath.

“Huh. You should’ve done shoes first,” Patrick says, and it’s -- it just feels like _them_. Like it’s just another day of him giving Pete shit for the stupid things Pete does. Pete rolls his eyes and Patrick gives his hair a warning pull. “Whatever, asshole. You’ll be going back down there in a minute anyway, I guess.”

Pete opens his mouth like he’s about to speak, but at another tug he swallows and settles for licking his lips instead. Patrick tracks the movement helplessly; when he looks up Pete’s watching him, eyes half-lidded, and he leans in towards Patrick, slowly, and Patrick lets him get a breath away before he stops him with his free hand to Pete’s chest. He can feel the harsh rhythm of Pete’s breath under his hand. “Take off my hoodie for me, Pete,” he says. His throat is bone-dry and it comes out as a rasp.

Pete nods jerkily. Patrick drops his hand from Pete’s chest and Pete wraps his hands in the soft fabric of Patrick's hoodie. Carefully, he slides it off Patrick’s shoulders. His knuckles track light pressure lines along Patrick’s chest as he goes. Patrick thinks maybe neither of them are breathing; Pete slides one sleeve off of Patrick’s free arm, then Patrick releases his grip on Pete’s hair long enough for Pete to slip that arm free too. The only sounds are the rustle of fabric, Pete’s choked-off noise at the sudden release in tension as Patrick unthreads his fingers from his hair, and, finally, a soft thump as Patrick’s hoodie falls to the floor.

“Good,” Patrick says, “thank you,” and then they stare at each other for a long moment and fuck, Patrick fucking wants him. He swallows. “Back on your knees,” he says.

Pete goes down again, smoother than the first time. He takes off Patrick’s shoes without prompting, deft fingers undoing Patrick’s laces and then slipping each boot off, one after the other, just like Patrick had imagined it. It shouldn’t -- it shouldn’t be _anything_ but Patrick is breathless, his whole body hot and flushed.

It’s not just Pete being on his knees, although that's an image he’ll probably never forget. It’s -- it’s how careful Pete is, steadying Patrick’s foot as he lifts out of his boot, and how tidily Pete sets the boots aside beside each other. He even gathers up Patrick’s fallen hoodie and folds it up -- okay, not very well, but it’s the _thought_ , right, because Pete isn’t _tidy_. But right now he is. And when he’s done he stares up at Patrick again, face clear of anything except _want_ , and Patrick is so fucking gone.

“Thanks,” he says again, softly. He reaches a hand down to curve around Pete’s jaw, rubbing his fingers against Pete’s skin. “Thanks, Pete.”

Pete makes a small noise, something like contentment, and he’s so obviously hard in his jeans but he just rests there, weight on his heels, leaning his face carefully into Patrick’s hold.

Patrick swallows, suddenly unsure. “Is there -- is there anything else you wanna do, Pete?” he says.

Pete sighs, warm breath just brushing Patrick’s skin, then he rocks forward until he can nuzzle up to the front of Patrick’s jeans, his open mouth dragging over Patrick’s dick. Patrick makes some kind of noise and Pete tips his chin up to grin at him, teasing.

“You’re such a shit,” Patrick says, but it doesn’t hold much weight with how breathy it comes out.

“You love it,” Pete says. He rubs his cheek along the line of Patrick’s cock through the old, worn-out denim. With his face turned just to the side, the light catches on his cheekbone, on a slick spot on his lower lip. He glances up at Patrick through his bangs with wide, dark-lined eyes. “Can I blow you, Patrick? Please?”

Patrick has to close his eyes, take a long, slow breath, because it’s -- they haven’t even _done_ anything and he’s already so fucking close, just from the slight, teasing pressure Pete’s giving him now. When he looks back, Pete’s waiting. There’s a teasing curve to his smile but he also looks so fucking sincere, from the warmth in his eyes to the looseness in his muscles under Patrick’s palm.

“Yeah,” Patrick manages, “Pete, please, yeah.”

Pete smiles up at him, twists to place a silly little kiss against Patrick’s palm. Then he fucking undoes Patrick’s zipper with his _teeth._

“Oh, fuck,” Patrick says faintly.

Pete pauses to grin triumphantly up at him. When he goes back to finish the job, though, the zipper catches and holds, and he tugs fruitlessly for a moment before pulling back, shaking his bangs out of his eyes and frowning at Patrick’s crotch.

Patrick stares, then _snorts_ in the least attractive way possible. “Oh my _god_ ,” he says, and then he’s laughing, tipping back into the door and shaking with it. “That was, like, the least smooth thing, oh my _god._ ”

“Shut the fuck up,” Pete grumbles, yanking the zipper down the rest of the way by hand.

“I’m not going to shut up about that like _ever_ \-- oh, _fuck me_ ,” Patrick gasps, as Pete tugs his jeans and boxers down together and leans in to mouth at the head of Patrick’s cock in one fast move.

It’s -- okay, it’s sloppy, Patrick’s probably had better but he can’t for the life of him think when. He’s wound so fucking tight and Pete’s mouth is hot and slick around him, and even worse than that is the gentle way he curls his hands around the backs of Patrick’s thighs, supporting and pulling him closer. There’s something about how careful the grip is, even with guitar calluses rubbing against Patrick’s skin, that makes Patrick’s breath catch, forces him to scrunch his eyes shut and pray he doesn’t lose it in the first minute, because how embarrassing would that be?

Pete makes a soft noise and goes a little further down on Patrick’s cock, his eyelashes fluttering. Patrick presses his shoulder blades back into the solid wood behind him to resist pressing the other way, pushing his hips toward Pete’s face and forcing his cock down Pete’s throat. He doesn’t need to, honestly, because Pete is licking messily at the underside of his dick and Patrick is maybe two seconds from coming, but knowing that Pete would just take it, that if his mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied he’d maybe say _please_ , makes Patrick’s gut tighten and twist.

“God, god, fuck,” he mumbles between harsh snatches of breath. His hands scrabble uselessly at the door behind him. His fingers are slippery with sweat and he can’t find any purchase; with a frustrated noise he gives up and buries them in Pete’s hair again, winding in to anchor himself. He thought his grip was loose but Pete’s eyes fly open and he _moans,_ breathy and high and right fucking around Patrick’s cock, and his fingers tighten against Patrick’s thighs, fingernails just barely digging in. Patrick’s head thumps back against the door because it’s too much, it’s too fucking much, and then Pete’s hands gentle and he soothes the sharp points of pain left by his nails with his fingertips, and Patrick loses it without even a choked warning. He comes with a pained groan into Pete’s mouth and Pete just takes it all.

When the aftershocks have eased, Pete eases Patrick back carefully until he’s slumped fully against the door, then hunches over until his forehead is pressed to Patrick’s hip. For a split second Patrick is worried, but then he hears Pete groan, the noise muffled like he’s got his lip between his teeth or something. The muscles of Pete’s back shift, tensing and releasing. He’s rocking ever so slightly, back onto his heels and then forward again, and Patrick can’t see it but he can imagine it, Pete fucking into his own hand. Patrick feels wholly boneless but he manages to tighten his hands in Pete’s hair, pulling gently; Pete makes a strangled noise and then goes still.

Patrick eases his hold slowly. He feels suddenly bone-tired, weary but content, and he runs his fingers through Pete’s bangs, tidying them a little. When he looks down, Pete’s come is splattered in drops over the bottom of his jeans, the floor, his boots. Well, fuck it. If it’s already on his pants then sitting in a little more won’t kill him.

Living with his band has maybe made him a little grosser than he used to be.

“Budge over,” he says, nudging Pete’s shoulder with his knee. “I wanna sit, my legs are gonna give out on me.”

Pete looks up. His face is a mess, sweat on his cheekbones smearing his eyeliner even more and his lips bitten all red, but he grins that shitty grin that Patrick’s so familiar with and Patrick releases a bit of a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding.

“That good?” Pete says, nudging Patrick’s knee back, and it quivers a little. Jesus, Patrick is tired.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, but it’s good-natured. Pete crawls slowly to the side and Patrick uses a hand on his shoulder to get down to the floor himself so they’re sitting side-by-side against the door. There’s a moment of silence where Patrick just takes it all in -- the sweet, tingling firing in his nerves, still going minutes later; his pulse beginning to slow; Pete’s shoulder warm against his.

“Hey,” he says, and he tilts his neck until his head butts softly against Pete’s. “Thanks.”

Pete laughs, but it’s not mocking. It’s just -- it’s kind of sweet. “Yeah, you too,” he says, his voice soft like before.

Patrick inhales, then twists to the side and presses his lips carefully to Pete’s. It shouldn’t feel like a big thing, after what they just did, but it weirdly does. When Pete responds, something like relief courses through Patrick.

Pete breaks the kiss first because he starts to grin, which -- Patrick hasn’t quite got the hang of kissing someone through a smile as wide as Pete’s yet. He thinks he might have opportunity to practice in the future, though.

It’s Pete’s turn to butt his head against Patrick’s, bumping their foreheads together. “So hey,” he says as he pulls back, “we should do that again sometime.”

Patrick snickers. “You’re so not smooth. How do you get anyone to sleep with you when you’re so not smooth?”

“It worked on you.”

Sunlight has crept further into the hall; the sun must be starting to set. Patrick kicks one foot against Pete’s. “Yeah, it did.” Out of the corner of his eye he catches the faded band logo on Pete’s t-shirt and remembers. “Hey, are you wearing my shirt?”

Pete’s mouth twitches. “No.”

“You _are_ , you lying fuck,” Patrick says.

Pete’s smile curls upwards, dirtier, and he glances down then back up to meet Patrick’s eyes. “I could wash it for you before I give it back.”

That really shouldn’t be sexy. Patrick’s brain is probably broken in some fundamental way.

 _“Fine,_ ” he manages. Pete looks smug; it’s a bad look on him so Patrick digs an elbow into his ribs just to keep his ego down. “And you can do my pants too since you got them dirty. Dick.”

“As you wish,” Pete says, and he waggles his eyebrows but there’s that spark of sincerity again. Patrick is really way, way too sleepy to think about it, though. Instead, he leans in and kisses Pete again.

 

 

 


End file.
